


in the depths

by the Girl in 221C (naienko)



Series: Vignettes from the Girl in 221C [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naienko/pseuds/the%20Girl%20in%20221C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does, in fact, have a heart. He hides it very, very well, but sometimes people sneak in without him realising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the depths

"John?" 

For half a second, Sherlock didn't recognise the voice at all, bent over the microscope on the kitchen table. High, wavery -- the speaker was holding back tears, he observed -- with a plaintive whine that bid fair to grate on his nerves if he had to listen to it very long.

Then reality kicked him in the teeth, and he jerked his head up to find Summer in the kitchen doorway, looking entirely too small even for her, and very woebegone. "John is," he had to pause and think about it, "not here." Oh, hell, he thought. Neither is Mrs Hudson.

He was probably going to have to actually deal with ... whatever this was.

Memory, treacherous at the best of times, chose that moment to kick up a replay of the day they'd met. ("I'm not really supposed to spend a lot of time alone right now," her remembered voice echoed, talking to John.)

If her shoulders hadn't already been rounded, he was sure they would have slumped under his response. His mind flailed around, trying to think what the best reaction would be. If he didn't do anything, John would be disappointed, and disappointed John was to be avoided if possible.

Fortunately, Summer simplified the choice before him. In a small voice, she asked, "Can I sit up here? I'll be quiet, I don't want to disturb you ... " Every bit of body language proclaimed that she expected to be turned away and was bracing for the inevitable.

Being predictable was boring. Sherlock waved a hand at the other chair and bent back to the eyepiece, commenting, "You aren't disturbing me."

The scrape of the chair legs on the lino covered the silence of shock very nicely. Then again, silences rarely bothered Sherlock.

Except this one, as it stretched out like spider silk, began to.

He spared a part of his attention from the slides to listen. Breathing, rapid, hitching but not sobbing. Nearly soundless, the heaving of someone desperate not to be overheard. Soft fabric susurrus -- her hands, slipping slightly up and down her arms. The faint creaking of the chair denoted the sway of her body, rocking back and forth.

He glanced up, under the guise of switching slides. Her eyes were shut, slow tears sliding from beneath the lids to trail down her face and drip from her chin. From slumped, her shoulders had gone up around her ears, hands locked around her upper arms. He drew his brows down, studying her. "I suppose you want to talk about it," he said, at last.

"No."

His eyebrows flew up. "No."

"I want to not think. Not feel. Just ... not."

Sherlock could completely understand. Not that he had any more idea how to help her than solve the problem for himself (now that certain doors were firmly shut and going to stay that way, anyway). What would John do? John would offer tea. "Would you ... like some tea?"

"Please don't pretend, Sherlock." It came out weary, defeated. Almost lifeless. He found it actually troubled him a bit, the loss of vibrancy in her voice. It was wrong; Summer should be like the season she was named for, full of colour and light.

He laid the slide down without putting it under the microscope. "Yes, you don't like tea." He cast about helplessly.

Once again she saved him with a soft question. "Can I have a hug?"

"Um." Hugs were ... well, he hugged Mrs Hudson, but that was all right, she basically mothered him. This was -- he didn't know what this was, except not at all like hugging Mrs Hudson in greeting.

"Please?" Summer whispered.

It was probably the begging that did it, he decided, stepping around the table. 'Probably' was more inaccurate than he liked, but any sentiment, even the kind he allowed himself, was very difficult to pin down. It was little different than asking after Sarah's well-being during the Black Lotus incident, he rationalized.

Sherlock kept overlooking how short Summer really was. Standing, she didn't even reach his shoulder. She got both arms about his waist and tucked her cheek into his chest, and awkwardly he put his arms around her shoulders. It wasn't uncomfortable; in fact the arrangement fitted together quite tidily.

He could feel her breathing still hitching, and a tiny tremor vibrated the arms locked around him. Very gently, he let his chin rest on the top of her head. They stood there like that, for a long moment; he let half his mind dash back to the microscope work, while the other half ran around in little circles trying to think if there was anything else he should be doing.

Slowly the tension seeped out of her muscles. Her breathing relaxed, and she turned her face deeper into his chest. "'m sorry," she mumbled. "I was just thinking, and then I couldn't stop, 'n' I was all alone -- it was almost all I could do just to get up here -- I didn't mean-"

"Hush," Sherlock hummed. "You didn't disturb me."

"You know I can tell if you lie."

He dug his chin into her scalp in mild retaliation, for he hadn't been lying. He was disturbed _now_ , rather more than he felt comfortable admitting to himself. He didn't like that this person, who had marched into his life and been his friend whether he wanted it or not, was now deeply upset about something and he had no idea what to do to help.

Not that he couldn't figure out what was bothering her. He just didn't care. She was upset. She had managed to become something like what he imagined a real sibling would be (not like Mycroft, who was bossy and demanding and controlling and _Mycroft_ ), and now she was upset. That was, as John would put it, a bit not good.

It was even more not good that Sherlock just genuinely had no idea whatsoever what to do about it.

He relaxed his arms the moment he sensed her starting to pull away. One-handed, she swept her hair off her face and managed a fake, watery smile. "Sorry," she said, barely meeting his eyes. He took himself back to the microscope, just for something to do with his hands, and watched her move about the kitchen from the corner of his eye.

When she turned the kettle on, though, he had to know. "What are you doing?"

"Making tea."

"Yes, but why?" He turned around to stare at her back.

"To say 'thank you'."

"For what?"

Finally, she met his gaze. "Because you didn't let go. You didn't push, you just did what I asked and that was all. It helps. It helps more than I can say."

"Go and wash your face." He tipped his head toward the tiny hallway letting onto his bedroom. "Flannels are under the sink."


End file.
